


Pebble

by Izzy_Grinch



Series: The Inquisitors [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adaar is being a big loving kid, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, create a character and let him suffer, love makes us to do strange things, sacrificing something very dear to him, thanks Bioware
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 21:17:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6345700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adaar does not imagine his life away from Dorian, so he would sacrifice whatever he has to stay with Pavus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pebble

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Галька](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6345454) by [Izzy_Grinch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch). 



The Inquisitor doesn’t want to hear a word. When Dorian mentions his plans of returning to Tevinter, Adaar holds mage’s fingers, brings them to his dry lips and begs Dorian not to stay here with him, in the dilapidated fortress, where the sheets smell like fungus, and little by little the books in the meager library are being supplanted by Tethras’ opuses; no, he just begs Dorian to take him _away_ − away from the iced stairs in the bathhouse and all the vapid literature.

Dorian laughs in a pleasant way. He’s happy as a naughty boy can be, the one who’s just avoided the severe punishment after breaking dozen of rules. He’s happy as the person, whose hands are kissed by the fearless mercenary − by the ferocious monster, as it’s always being told in his childhood, the beast which reaps heads and rips beating hearts out. But Adaar hasn’t reaped − he’s turned Dorian’s one; he hasn’t ripped − he’s offered his own in the cup of his palms.

And he’s always so kind to everyone that sometimes this advertence comes too close to amentia: as if a found trinket or a coward druffalo can help to get rid of these things they are wasting their best years on. Even at the trial, after all what’s happened, he doesn’t execute Alexius, though Dorian dares not to move a step from the window, growing cold with waiting for the sound of the first spectators’ din and the reluctant paces of the escort, which would lead this poor wretch on the scaffold.

And in the fight Adaar turns into a needle of a snake’s fang: he disappears in the shadows and then, ducking under the enemy’s elbow, he pricks invisibly with his daggers. Bodies, staying whole and looking like they are just in some kind of a deep slumber, fall on the juicy flowers, which bloom under the Iron Bull’s axe − onto the scattered lumps of meat, and Dorian hastes to turn away to not see how many tints someone’s flesh can show.

Adaar remembers names of many people, from the runners to the soldiers, and after a good fight he doesn’t mind to fire a slug with those who’s managed to nip away from the weariless vigil of the healers. He harks and observes much more than he drinks, and when the ones’ being carried out to sleep themselves sober, he’s barely tipsy to play some new mischiefs with Sera or, sneaks out of the bookshelves to swoop Dorian up under his knees and to smile complacently, while the mage’s twitting this extreme impishness and having no idea how to get down.

Adaar is soft and compassionate for a tal-vashoth, who once was cutting someone’s throats, and the humans he’s grown up with haven’t infected him with vanity, or hubris, or acrimony. He is doubtful of gods and is not proud of being chosen; it seems as if he’s rather ashamed of it, almost afraid; he tells Josephine that he doesn’t intend to lie to the peasantry and nobility: let them stare at him with fear, let them disdain him and fib unflattering stories about his life − he will swallow it all.

“You’re such a noodle,” Dorian chides him, stroking his slightly pointed ear.

“So, it’s more likely that I’ve never been listed on any of Andraste’s great plans.”

Sometimes Adaar is too trustful: once a dracolisk left the stables and taught him very quickly to conduct himself with caution. Dorian wasn’t able to do this, but some hard-bitten beast has done this playfully − for Adaar claims the dracolisk was just playing rather than trying to define the proper use of its claws and tushes. Dorian wasn’t able to do this, though he was entirely serious when biting and stinging painfully to be sure; to make Adaar steer clear of him; to make himself, the son of Pavus, sleep peacefully while the Inquisitor wanders somewhere in the company of clumsy warriors and daring or short-legged archers − and without mages.

And now he has to sting again. “Look at yourself,” purrs Dorian, cursing the Imperium for these words but promising himself that one day nobody will ever have to say such things to anyone, “Even if you expound Vyranion’s Theorem at some formal court, it would take them one brush of your horns over the chandelier to caught you immediately and hung on the wall next to the boar’s head.”

Adaar shrinks away from Dorian’s guilty touching, Adaar becomes gloomy, there’s a deep dark wrinkle between his brows; he looks through the mirror which he brought here specially for Dorian, and the mage, snugging up to Adaar’s shoulder, looks at the reflection too.

Vashoth is a man of sturdy build, with the strong features, which are quite simple if you see them full-face and kind of interesting from the side, his jaw is narrow and its moves are almost graceful, his forehead is insignificantly curved by the horns, and his skin − the first thing to strike the eye − is light-colored, pinkish and soft on the temples as well as everywhere else. He had a short haircut before, but he’s let his hair grow, and now it falls heavily between his shoulder blades. Three loops of the marvelous rough horns, covered with nicks, go up and slightly sideways.

Dorian reaches to caress them, but Adaar catches his wrists and imprints here some weary, as some tired autumn butterflies, kisses and then says that he has a bunch of urgent matters. He avoids his reflection now, and Dorian sorely wants to grab him on the chin, dig into Adaar’s pupils with his gaze and scream, letting the spider of dubiety maul his lungs inside, − scream about how he is scared to lose his Inquisitor, how damned Tevinter is more dangerous to him than the embrace of awaken Urthemiel.

But Dorian hasn’t been raised like this. How can he vent such things, if he still reproves himself for that weakness, which seized his body when the unscathed Inquisitor had stepped out of the Adamant’s rift, and Dorian remained standing only because he was leaning firmly on his staff?

Dorian gets angry at Adaar, he gets angry at himself − for this stupid helplessness, he gets angry at Cole, who appears from nowhere, settles on the tables among the tomes, tucking his legs awkwardly. Cole says:

“Back and forth. It worrits, whirrs, wobbles. It is unwanted, no regret. Back and forth. Let it go. It is nothing.”

Dorian waves him away, his in no mood for unraveling the restless spirit’s riddles, but Cole cuts short his monologue only when the rattling tramp greets from the staircase and Blackwall comes up to the library, confused, courteous in attempts to explain that he did whatever he could, but the Inquisitor was too determined to argue. The blacksmith apron on the Warden-liar is powdered with grayish dust. Cole repeats:

“Back and forth. Wants to be like you.”

Blackwall hesitates, keeping out of the mage’s way; Solas curves his brows, puzzled; Varric next to the fireplace makes a helpless gesture; and the entire hall, all of those who haven’t left after the two-day feast, and all of those who continues to serve the Inquisition faithfully, − all of them whisper and shush, once Dorian shows up in front of everyone and runs aslant the main hall, and plunges into the door behind the throne. He seems not to breathe; he seems to creep about on tiptoe. He’s not ready.

The tal-vashoth’s face has changed, lost its inner harshness, now being framed by the thick cascade of hair, which is down to conceal the smoothly sandpapered ledges. Adaar is actually similar to a human, and this similarity crushes something in the cage of Dorian’s ribs. He asks aloud the demon from which darn abyss has forced the Inquisitor to make such a naive, such a foolish sacrifice. He beats his fists into Adaar’s chest frenziedly, hides his eyes and enfolds gently the neck bowed toward him.

The pair of twisted horns is lying on a bedspread. The scratchy saw cuts are white as pearly pebble on the choppy shores of Carinus.


End file.
